


Thicker Than Water

by clunion68



Category: Avatar: The Last Airbender
Genre: Angst, Bloodbending (Avatar), Family History, Firebending & Firebenders, Gen, Minor Violence, Original Character(s), Waterbending & Waterbenders, god the generational trauma is off the charts isn't it, katara and zuko being good parents, me crying, siblings being good siblings - Freeform, soup mention
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-02
Updated: 2020-08-02
Packaged: 2021-03-06 07:47:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,889
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25669924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clunion68/pseuds/clunion68
Summary: "He wanted to shout at the boy, throw him to the ground and shout 'Do you know who my mother is? Do you know who my mother is?'She was the Fire Lady as it was her duty, nothing more than circumstance, but she was a Master because she was born to be so, born with all that power as she was born with everything else about her natural person.But he didn’t yell, he didn’t say a single word, he knew the boy knew who his mother was, who his father was certainly, and so he said nothing and simply forced him to beg while he gripped harder and harder in silence."______________________The oldest son of the Fire Lord and Lady snaps, and who here is really in control?
Relationships: Katara/Zuko (Avatar)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 63





	Thicker Than Water

He could picture the look in his mother’s eyes if she knew. He could picture them flashing with anger, no, first it would be hurt, grave disappointment, then anger, then, what could she do, quiet resignation. Her son had crossed a line, and even if he swore, or she made him swear, what’s done is done. His mother’s eyes were like his own. He was the spitting image of his father, that’s what the people who knew his father the best had told him all his life. But not his eyes. Not his eyes and not his gift. Gift, or whatever it was now. He could see the look in the other’s boy’s eyes. He could see nothing but confusion and horror in the other boy’s eyes as he felt his own burning, as he felt his mind and his gentle motion bring him to his knees. He could see tears well up in the other boy’s eyes, maybe he could use those too. Keep one hand focused on restraining and one on, on what? Such a minuscule amount of water, he could still use it to cut his cheek, slash his brow, scar him. He didn’t look exactly like his father at his age. That wasn’t quite true. He thought of his father, thought of his father’s father. He let the boy cry.

He let the boy cry and beg for forgiveness. Normally he would do nothing. He would breathe in and let everything dissipate. If you kick the sand, the tide is still coming in, it’s always coming in, it will always wash away your impact no matter how much force you use. But the tide isn’t always gentle; the tide isn’t always calm or quiet. A wave can wipe out far more than a footprint. He could have just left the boy drenched and fuming. He could have had him take his sopping wet self back to his family. He could explain to his mother why he came home dripping on the floors that had just been polished or cleaned or whatever it would be. He could avert his father’s gaze as he formed the words again, this time with shame instead of malice. He could have done that. At worst he should have done only that. But what good would that do. He could have also pushed him into a fountain; so could anyone. Few could literally bend someone to their will; few could reach within another person and redirect their natural course of action. Few could turn a person’s own body against them.

The crying boy, drenched and on his knees sinking lower and lower had golden eyes. Just like his sister. She had told him once that he was lucky, he would never have to know the destruction that could accompany his power. You can’t hurt people like I can, she had tossed it over her shoulder like nothing more than a rag. For her, nothing could be inconsequential. Even one flame of her creation, no larger than what might burn simply on a candlewick, could burn down the city. He would have to try to drown the world and she could turn it to ash with nothing more than a sneeze, her words. The boy would like to be hurt like she could hurt him. It would be a kind of familiar pain, the national pain, a pain he was taught to respect. Maybe something his father would have used to command fear, or his mother. The world was changing, sure, big changes, reforms and treaties and other such businesses that ate at their family dinners, reports that waltzed through conversations between his mother and father, a bow from an Earth Kingdom citizen returned with a bow from a Fire Nation prince. The world was different. His mother had told him so. His father had told him so. How many times had they each sat him down to start a story with “when I was your age”? His father had sealed peace into law but he couldn’t sign love into the hearts of every single person. He couldn’t control them, not what was inside of them. And neither could he, not really, he couldn’t extract thoughts from minds. He couldn’t make anyone love, love who cares, like him but here, now, he could make them respect him. Even if the world was changing, fear could always change people.

_Please, let me go, I’m sorry!_

Was he? He was only sorry now that he was afraid. He was only sorry now that he saw what he was really capable of. Did he sound sorry or did he just sound scared. Lu Ten felt his eyes holding back tears, felt his arms begin to tremble, felt his lip begin to quiver. He looked into the eyes of the boy pleading with him, did he think he was going to die? His eyes were just like his sister’s. He had seen fear in his sister’s eyes too. Why did she want to be like him? Because she was afraid of herself? Because he couldn’t possibly be so powerful? Because he inherited their mother’s abilities, because he, what, had none of the same cruel blood coursing through his veins? Did he not also wear a royal crown? Did he not also reside in a palace, sit at his father’s right hand as he held court? And did she not also sail southward to learn the customs of their mother’s people? Did she too not have the blood of great chiefs, warriors, healers, and waterbenders flowing through her? Yet he was the foreigner. The stranger. The mutt. The waterbender.

The boy cried out in pain and Lu Ten felt them both collapse. Both stumble to their feet. He wanted nothing more than to help the other boy up. Even after what they both had done, really what he himself had done, his instinct was to reach out his hand. He did. The other boy spat. Had they been friends he would’ve called that waterbending. And then the boy ran away, limping, soaked, scared out his mind and probably cursing under his breath. And Lu Ten stood alone. In an empty courtyard, with a trickling fountain, and the look of terror in golden eyes branded into his memory forever.

***

His father looked like he was going to fall asleep headfirst into his bowl, his mother had dark circles under her eyes, his younger brother and sister were always quiet unless they could sneak a snide quip into a conversation, but even his usual partner in crime, his youngest sister had a far off look in her eyes. He should be the first one to crack a joke, a smile, say anything, but if he opened his mouth he was afraid it would all come pouring out with the hot soup. Maybe though, maybe it was good that everyone was quiet. Then no one would question why he was. He made little ripples in his bowl with his spoon, watched them form like waves, watched them roll and crash against the inside of the bowl, watched them disappear.

_I don’t feel well, may I please be excused?_

It didn’t even sound like his voice. He wasn’t even sure it came from him. Some spirit talking through him. Some spirit lifting his feet, tucking in his chair, giving a respectful nod to his parents, and turning him around to leave the room. He knew his mother would find him later, he knew she would take his temperature, try to heal him. He knew she would look at him so warmly and he wouldn’t be able to return her gaze. He lowered his eyes to the ground thinking how cold his own eyes must have looked, how horrified he would be to see the same look in his mother’s eyes. Yes, she would check up on him and he would probably lie to her. He would probably lie and say it was something stupid like dehydration or a headache or a stomach bug. And whether or not she believed him, she would probably act like she did. One day he might confess, or not.

The hallways seemed longer or maybe the world just seemed slower, everything felt taller, he wished he could light a lamp with his fingers. His legs must have carried him to his bed and his arms must have pulled the covers around him. Now he would cry. Now he would finally cry out everything. Now he would cry and everything would evaporate. But he just stared. He just stared at the curtains shifting with the breeze, stared through the crack in the curtains out into the vague shapes of the courtyard. He could bend any water in the world and couldn’t will himself to cry. Which ancestors was he disappointing. What part of himself had he killed and what part had he resurrected with the blood. He couldn’t stop seeing the boy’s eyes. He couldn’t stop hearing him beg. He couldn’t stop thinking about how good it felt to exercise such power. He had always seen the power behind his mother’s teachings. She would move like a dancer but aim as a warrior. She was like the sea meeting the sky or the sky meeting the sea, the water just became her. Even while demonstrating for him, she had never felt the need to hold back, that would only teach him to hold back. And he hadn’t held back. He hadn’t at all. It should have made her proud. He wanted to shout at the boy, throw him to the ground and shout _Do you know who my mother is? Do you know who my mother is?_ She was the Fire Lady as it was her duty, nothing more than circumstance, but she was a Master because she was born to be so, born with all that power as she was born with everything else about her natural person. But he didn’t yell, he didn’t say a single word, he knew the boy knew who his mother was, who his father was certainly, and so he said nothing and simply forced him to beg while he gripped harder and harder in silence. A moment of strength, or a false sense of it, for a lifetime of what? Staring? He stared and he waited for the inevitable knock on the door.

It came. And Lu Ten sighed. What would his mother most likely believe without feeling the need to intervene further with medicine, or, he felt his throat tighten, healing. He felt the weight of the mattress shift towards the corner of the bed.

“Something’s wrong with you.”

Kya really had a way with words. He exhaled a breath he didn’t realize he had been holding in. It felt like his head was collapsing with his lungs. At least, for now, it wasn’t their mother.

“Stomach thing.”

So that was the lie he was going with then.

“No.”

“What,” he turned over and sat up, he groaned a little to add to the act, “do you want me to prove it?”

She sighed and lowered her head. He folded his knees up to his chest.

“It’s fine, don’t worry about me.”

When they were younger, far younger, little, before Rohan and Izumi, she would waddle after him wherever he went. The turtleducks, their parents used to call them, still called them just to see them both roll their eyes. When she said she wished she could be more like her brother, it wasn’t just about their abilities. He was strong and kind and she felt like he blessed the earth he walked on. He was quick with a joke and even the grosser things like his signature spit bending couldn’t fail to make her laugh, or at the very least crack a reluctant smile. He took his role as the oldest seriously and always sought to comfort her, not so much to quell the flames within her but to let her feel them for what they really were – light and warmth. She had years’ worth of moments to return, she might as well act on one.

“Too late!”

She flopped down on the bed and spread her arms out wide, just wide enough to maybe, possibly ever so gently poke her brother in the eye. She scoffed as he shoved her arm down. She crossed her arms and decided to just let them breathe for a moment. There was a look she had recognized in his eyes earlier. She recalled the first time she created fire out of thin air. She remembered the look on her father’s face, the way his nose crinkled and his eyes twitched, like for a moment he hadn’t believed it. She remembered the smile he broke into and the way the ground fell out from under her feet as he picked her up and spun her around into his arms. She remembered him returning her to earth and grabbing her hand as they ran, practically tripped over themselves, to find her mother. She remembered the soft yellow glow flickering across her mother’s face, sinking into her widening eyes. She remembers the silly little curtsy she took afterward and the way her mother’s hand felt so big cupping her cheek. She remembered what it was like before she had become afraid, before she had really learned about her father’s scar, her grandmother’s sacrifice and her mother’s village, her grandfather who was rotting in prison but still very much alive. Her brother had the shadow now that she saw enveloping her, cloaking her, spreading like smoke from the inside out, when she caught her reflection. He didn’t have to tell her why it was there. She only wanted to make sure he didn’t feel alone.

In the silence cut only by their soft breathing, Kya heard echoes of her own cries, the ones she made at night after seeing her father at her feet in her nightmares her hands radiating and hurdling towards his face. Lu Ten heard echoes of the boy. The percussive derision in the way he spat, the wounded cries of the animal he was, the words that rang in his ears, the ones that said Lu Ten’s forefathers should have finished what they had started. He wondered if there was a way of responding with kind indifference to something like that at all. He should have found one. That would have been the right thing to do, at least that’s what he told himself, what his mother would tell him.

“You told me once I was lucky.”

He was. She would tell him again. He was lucky.

“That I could never hurt people like you could, that I didn’t know what destruction was.”

She pushed herself up and watched as her brother turned his face away. He so wished his voice would tremble, hoped there would be just the slightest ripple, hoped something would make a ripple in his voice like he had made ripples in his soup, his soup that he hoped someone else had at least gotten the chance to eat. But it was flat, it was flat and it was cold and it stretched on forever a frozen plain to meet a frozen sky like their maternal homeland. He kept his eyes focused on his hands in his lap. They were just hands, that’s all they looked like. They looked gentle, his palm felt soft on the back of his hand and the back of his hand felt soft against his palm. They were just big enough to fit a turtleduck hatchling. Something now awake within him told him they were also big enough to choke it out, not that he even needed a physical touch to do so. He wanted to take those hands and pull out his hair in bales, tear at the silks, flood the gardens, pull his head into his chest and retract, retract, retract until he disappeared into himself. Until it would be like he had never been there at all. He wanted to spare his mother – even though she had never, would never teach her son such a thing, she hadn’t saved him from it. He wanted to spare his father – he would find harsh familiarity in his actions. It would frighten them both. It would frighten them both as it frightened him now. The blood inside him, the blood of his ancestors was blood that had shed and been shed by the other. He always felt guided by the blood of his mother and his mother’s mother all the way back through the generations. Who had wielded his blood that day? Who had guided his hand toward anger, towards retribution, towards cruelty? Who was telling him it wasn’t cruel. Who was telling him that boy deserved it? If he were to speak again, would a thousand voices come out, or would none?

“I think…”

He willed himself to turn towards his sister, to face her golden eyes, to see the boy’s reflected in them, to see the fear in his morph with the concern in hers, he willed himself to confess, or at least start to, to someone, so that one day, tomorrow, a year from now, twenty years from now, he could confess to his mother.

“I think I understand.”

**Author's Note:**

> This is quite literally the first fan fic I've ever written! (Unless you count "The Adventures of Spiber Man" a best-effort original Spider Man comic I made when I was, like, eight?)
> 
> Been on the Zutara train since childhood and picturing their family life has always interested me (especially thinking about family history, legacy, genetic memory, blah blah blah). 
> 
> Anyway, I had a good time writing it, I hope you had a good time reading it! 
> 
> -clunion


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